


this is a gift, it comes with a price

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Semet Adaar [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2020-02-26 16:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18720370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: Semet Adaar, before the Inquisition.





	this is a gift, it comes with a price

Semet’s first memories were grabbing ahold of Sati’s horns and laughing—she herself had no horns yet, her head smooth beneath her tufts of red hair. She must have been three or so, and it was a happy time. Sati had smelled of damp earth—he’d been plowing that day. Natem had been standing in the doorway, watching, and had laughed as she dangled, the deep sound filling the room.

Sati and Natem were farmers, living just outside a small village. She couldn’t remember where it was—perhaps it was the Free Marshes? Sati had a vegetable garden, where he grew the food they ate, and later, there were sheep that Semet would be responsible for herding and chickens, whose eggs she would gather. Natem grew wheat, which he loaded into carts and took into the village, where there was a mill. He didn’t go often, but that was where the coin came from, in those days. Sometimes Semet went with him, and ran off to play with the village children while he bargained with the miller.

She fit in well, in those early days—she was merely tall, not towering, and her skin was brown like Natem’s, not grey like Sati’s, and her horns hadn’t even began to grow yet. The village children didn’t seem to even realize she was a Qunari, just an odd girl from outside the village, and played with her freely, teaching her marbles and skip-rope and swapping stories with her.

When she turned eight, her horns emerged from beneath her curls, and the children threw stones at her, calling her  _ox_. She ran to Natem, crying, and he scooped her up in his arms, cradling her close. She didn’t go with him into the village after that.

Instead, she spent her days on the farm with Sati, learning to spin wool with her large hands and pull weeds. Her horns grew, curling and magnificent, and her parents laughed when she pretended to butt horns with the ram of their herd.

Three months after her horns grew in, Sati and Natem sat her down, expressions worried.

They told her about the Qun then. They explained to her about Tal-Vashoth—how they fled their squad in the Antaam, and served as mercenaries for a few years before Sati had become pregnant with her.

Sati was thinner than Natem, with grey skin and inky-black hair. His horns were tall and straight, his eyes blue and kind. His voice was higher than Natem’s, but still beautiful and deep. He sang Qunari marching songs—the only songs he knew—to her as she fell asleep. Sati had been Aqun-Athlock, whatever that meant, which was why he could have children, he explained to her. She didn’t quite understand what that meant, but she’d figure it out eventually. Sati was loud and laughing, boisterous and talkative, and wonderful. He was fast with knives, although he rarely used them anymore, except for juggling tricks.

Natem was broad and strong, his horns curlier than Semet’s. His arms were  _huge_ , and the sword he kept above the fireplace glistened brightly. His eyes were red, his hair was brown, and he was the one who taught Semet to dance. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened, because he had a gravitas and power that was undeniable. He was clever, but people always assumed otherwise, thinking him slow because he was quiet.

When Semet was ten (the year had been marked with Natem weaving her a crown of daisies, which she had worn for three days before they wilted and died), she used magic for the first time. She was out tending to the sheep, when a crow startled her. Jumping, she raised her hand slightly, and lightning crackled from her fingertips, nearly striking the bird.

She ran home right away, screaming for her parents. Natem found her first, gathering her up in his strong arms and demanding answers. In answer, she accidentally shocked him. Lightning raced up and down her horns, and she sobbed when he yelped, nearly dropping her in surprise.

“Sati!” He yelled, setting her down carefully. She curled up on her side, terrified, little bolts of electricity crackling all over her skin.

Sati came running out of the garden, covered in dirt and smelling of manure. “What is it?”

Natem pointed at her, covered in dancing blue lighting and crying.

Sati froze. “Saarebas,” he whispered, and he and Natem shared terrified looks.

Once she calmed down, her mana expended, Sati and Natem scooped her up in their arms, whispering how much they loved her, no, they didn’t care she was a mage, she was their little girl, things would be alright, everything would be fine.

“Will the Templars come for me?” She asked in a small voice, trying to hide her fear. Her parents stared at each other.

“Do they care about Qunari?” Sati asked, frowning. “Their Chantry…”

“They’re  _not_  taking her,” Natem growled.

“Are we sure they’d try? I’ve never heard of a Qunari mage in their Circles…”

“We can’t risk it,” Natem said softly.

They sold the little house and the farm, taking nothing but food and coin, the sword from the mantle place and Sati’s knives. Sati whittled her a staff, her first staff, out of an old oak branch. It wasn’t very good, and it was not at all magical, but it was from Sati, with one of his knives attached to the top to help it function as a weapon. She loved it, even though she feared the crackling lightning magic that dwelled within her.

They traveled for weeks, until they met up with Sati and Natem’s old mercenary company. They had a saarebas —a proper one, one born to the Qun, with their mouth scarred from the stitches, and only the smooth, shiny skin on their head to show where there had once been horns. They called themselves Baasa, and they were her first magic teacher, teaching her to wield her lightning and to control herself and her magic.

Sati and Natem worked for the company, but their foreheads were tight and their shoulders tense as they went through the motions of the life once again. They did not like it there, not anymore. Now they were farmers, not soldiers. Orders were not as easy to swallow, now that they had tasted real freedom and peace.

When Semet was fourteen, she convinced them to go find a new farm—a fact made easier that Sati was once again pregnant, and was reluctant to terminate his pregnancy, unlike the ones in the past.

Her parents left, but Semet stayed. There was still so much magic to learn, and besides, she was old enough. She would be fine.

Seven months later, Sati had the child, a little boy named Imekari. Semet longed to go see them, to join them at the new farm, but the new farm was near a city, and there were Templars. She didn’t dare go visit, although she always promised she would try, knowing they knew as much as she did that the written words were empty.

Being alone in the company was nerve-wracking. She made the others nervous—Baasa was mostly silent, and stayed at the edges of the camp, only joining the others when it was time to fight. They were not used to a mage who spoke, who laughed, who was  _normal_. They didn’t like it, whispering that it was  _unnatural_. Her laughter made them jump, her words made them wince. The Qun taught that the words of a saarebas were the words of a demon, and more than once Semet flinched away from threats of them cutting out her tongue or stitching her lips shut. They threatened to turn her over to Ben-Haasrath— _“you’re still young enough, you can be taught the Qun, you know”_ —or the Templars, depending on where they were in their travels through the Free Marshes. She learned to keep quiet, to follow orders without complaint, and to bury her emotions. She never laughed, and was careful to even hide her smiles.

Outside the company, things were just as bad. It was  _ox-horn_  when the humans feared her for her size or her horns,  _spell-bind_  when it was for her staff or lightning. Women found it amusing to pretend to flirt with her, to see if they could make her blush, and giggled behind their hands about how exotic she was. Men mockingly declared their intents to “tame” her, which made her seethe and grit her teeth.

When she was eighteen, Semet found another company with an apostate—this one an elven woman, a runaway from her Circle—and left to join them, eager to escape the company of the Tal-Vashoth. The woman, Leor, was kind and sweet, and happily taught Semet all that she knew.

The new company was more varied—mostly Qunari, but a few elves and humans like Leor—but Semet still kept her mouth shut and her head down, only using her magic in the heat of battle.

She didn’t use the staff Sati had carved her anymore—now she fought with a smooth piece of maple, with a crystal on the end and a blade made of ivory. Lightning came when she called it, and frost sometimes formed along the hand grooves from where her fingers rested.

The Valo-kas was home, in a way the last group wasn’t. Shrokakar, the leader, took Semet under her wing, laughing and large and kind. She reminded her of Natem in the way she commanded attention and obedience.  She was covered in scars and was loud and stubborn and cheerful; she wasn’t scared of any fight and the whole group knew better than to cross her.

Sata was angry and boisterous, cursing the Qun, the Chantry, or the weather with every other breath. But he was protective of Semet; the first time they saw Templars he snatched her staff out of her hand and tried to hide her behind him with his girth.

Katoh was their spy—silent and sneaky, clever and fast, her hands always itching to pick a pocket or a lock. She had been Ben-Hasrath before she’d gone Tal-Vashoth, and she told stories that made Semet’s skin crawl.

Kaasris was their scout, but his true passion was music, his eyes soft and his horns covered in a strange paint that he never would talk about, even though he’d talk about just about anything else, in a non-stop chatter that drove Shrokakar up the wall.

The Ashaads were twins, sullen and fonder of their weapons than any person, rarely even looking at each other. They screamed at night, and none of them ever said a thing; privacy was highly valued in the company.

Hissra was an archer, her eyes flinty and cruel, angry and biting at the world. Despite this, she was the best cook in the company, stirring up fires and making a decent stew from whatever they could find for her. Her horns were tiny little stubs, but she wore pointy metal caps on the edge, to allow her to have a weapon up-close.

They were kith, gathering around the campfire, complaining about being underpaid and overworked, laughing and telling stories.

Sometimes Shrokakar had Semet lead her own squad—she usually picked Katoh, Kaasris and Hissra or Meraad. Leor always remained behind, a healer at heart, despite the fire that she could call to hand in an instant if need be.

Everything changed when Shrokakar got a message—from the Divine herself.

She scratched his horns and grumbled, her rumbling voice carrying over the whole camp, “Adaar! Get over here. I need you to take a squad and head over to Ferelden. We’ve been hired to guard the Conclave.”


End file.
